Sandpaper Backrub

It occured to me recently that this masterpeice of a story is not on my blog! It is on my super crappy, and now super defunct, website, but it's a masterpiece and needs a wider audience. For what it's worth, I stole the title from this cartoon.

Anyway, without further ado I present: Sandpaper Backrub!

Vic MacClellen was a clever old gent. He was the type of guy who would swipe your morning paper and use it to line a birdcage. His coffee-making skills were less than adequate. His breath smelled of boiled pork chops wrapped in old sweat socks. He had only one thing going for him in life: his solid-gold rocket car.

Vic would merrily cruise through the streets in his sleepy New England neighbourhood, honking at passers-by as if he knew them personally. Sometimes he would run traffic lights in reverse, forcing other more responsible drivers off the road. These people would mostly curse Vic's name under their breath or gesture obscenely as he roared past. By and large, the townspeople despised old Vic and his solid-gold car.

Occasionally, Vic would go to 7-11 and try to purchase a loaf of bread with a solid-gold spark plug. Sometimes he would try to trade a hubcap for admission to the theatre. No one would take him up on any of his outlandish offers, though, because if there was one thing everyone could agree on, it was that no one could come up with an equitable rate of exchange using the fluctuating value of gold on the world market.

Eventually Vic tired of his rocket car and the financial stranglehold that he lorded over the townspeople. He sold his car to Liberace in exchange for a romantic candlelight recital for him and a poster of Jenna Elfman.

Later that same year, Vic was up to his old tricks again with a pewter skateboard he picked up at a yard sale in Albuquerque. But by this time the townspeople had decided that enough was enough, and they encased him in a transparent polymer while he slept.

The End

On Finding Religion

I have a friend who I'll call Esmerelda (although her real name's Cynthia Polosky and she lives at 1721 Dewdney Avenue). Esmerelda is going to a Pentecostal church. I find it kind of amusing; I mean, I'm happy to support whatever floats her boat, but the idea of convulsing and speaking in tongues, not to mention the nightly "faith healings" that take place, sounds kind of fishy to me.

When I was in university, I took a religious studies class with a guy named Brad. I was something of a militant atheist at the time, and as he was a believer, we often got into some good discussions. Brad was a great guy: he went tree planting in the summers, rode his old 10-speed bike to school all winter, and worked hard in all of his classes. I really liked him, we just didn't see eye-to-eye on a few issues.

Brad was also Pentecostal. He told me once about a service he was at where there was a good deal of the Holy Spirit flowing through the room. All kinds of people were acting crazy with the passing out and the rolling around and the speaking gobbledygook. He said one guy there had the Gift of Interpretation, and he was moving around the room explaining what was happening. He'd look at a guy flailing around on the floor and say, "This guy wants to start his own ministry." Or he'd listen to someone speaking in tongues and say, "This girl is going to save seven people and bring them into the church."

Brad was one of the few people there who did not feel the Holy Spirit moving through him. I remember him telling me this story, and in his voice I could hear the sadness and exclusion he felt. "I told someone there that I wasn't feeling it," he said, "And I was told to just hold on to some of the people there and continue to pray for them."

Now, the Lord moves in mysterious ways, and if Brad was not captured by the Holy Spirit it must have been for a darn good reason. And even though he was disappointed, there are certain tangible benefits to belonging to a church, not the least of which is social capital and a sense of community. And sometimes holding the hands of a flip-flopping individual and praying silently is enough. But I have a gift too, my friends: the Pentecostals call it the Gift of Knowledge. Sometimes I know things about people. For instance, I knew Tamara and I had something special when she walked past me at Camp Raynor and casually brushed my shoulders. I knew that Esmerelda found me attractive the moment we met. I know that Paul Martin is a liar and a crook. I know that Stephen Harper is a destructive and dangerous man. (Although I support the NDP, I can't speak with any certainty about Jack Layton -- though he seems to be very nice.) And I knew about Brad.

Like I said, Brad was a great guy. But he was searching for something that was missing in his life, and, at the time I knew him, he was looking for it in the Pentecostal church. The thing is, I don't think Brad was really a Pentecostal. It may have been religion he needed, I don't know; but I do know that what he was seeking would not lie where he was looking. I never got the impression from him that this church would make his cup runneth over.

We kept in touch over the rest of the school year, then lost track of each other over the summer. I wasn't able to express it at the time -- I was too angry and closed-minded and cynical -- but I wanted to be able to accept his choices, to see the value in what he was doing, and to help him see that where he was was not where he wanted to be. Instead, we clashed and butted heads a lot; we came to understandings, but no agreements.

Brad never seemed to ask for too much from the world. I hope he's married and happy somewhere right now, with a house full of children and a good, solid, fulfilling religion in his soul. I hope you found what you were looking for, my friend; it gives hope to all of us.